


i'll find you where the stars meet the sun

by arbhorwitch



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Assignments Gone Wrong, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Injury, M/M, Star Trek: Into Darkness Spoilers, Tarsus IV, and spock has to pick up the pieces, but how do you pick up the pieces of a man who doesn't remember you, in which jim bites off more than he can chew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:12:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbhorwitch/pseuds/arbhorwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim forgets. Spock can only watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll find you where the stars meet the sun

**Author's Note:**

> so this is kind of a new writing style for me and i wanted it to be longer and more heartbreaking but if i work on this any longer i'm just gonna delete it and cry myself to sleep 
> 
> thank you to cam because she puts up with over eight thousand words being sent to her in pieces over skype and i'd have given up long ago on this if not for her 
> 
> (and she's not even in the star trek fandom dang i love this woman)

Jim Kirk is many, many things.

Jim Kirk is the captain of a starship, a follower of his father’s footsteps up until he says fuck it and crunches snow and dirt and regulations and politics beneath his feet to make a path all his own; he’s a man who holds a great deal of power with a whole lot against him, but knows exactly where to draw the lines crossing over boundaries that others have set. Jim Kirk is everything that the Federation needs but didn’t _want_ but gets _anyway_ because Pike is (was) insistent and Jim Kirk never backs down from a dare. So when he’s dared to do better, he steals it from the air and tucks it in his pocket, carries it with him for three years and keeps it packed and folded even when he saves the world. “I dare you to do better,” Pike says, and that becomes, “I am relieved,” and Jim Kirk keeps that tucked in the pocket with all the words that actually mean something to him.

He earns his position, proves himself over and over, can act like the world’s biggest skirt-chasing jerk while simultaneously saving the life of the landing party and ensuring everyone’s safe return to the ship. There is a rich mind behind the ice and fire, a thousand truths locked up in treasure chests, and one only has to find the key.

But one by one, thoughts and memories are placed in those chests, and he doesn’t know what’s going on or why, but suddenly everything is _wrong_ and topsy-turvy, like falling to Earth without power and being tossed over railings by a dying ship.

There are too many flowers, too many bursting colors and blooms surrounding him, a needless forest of needles and haystacks painted with vibrant reds and blues and purples. He cannot find his way out or up, doesn’t know where he even _is_ , and so when an unfamiliar voice says, “ _Jim_ ,” he nearly ups and runs right there.

He doesn’t, though. Whoever he (Jim, he thinks, my name is Jim) is, he knows he’s not a runner, so he stares at the man who had spoken and says, “What.”

“We believed you dead,” the man continues. He has strange features—pointed ears, piercing eyes that wound him silently, and this is something, _someone_ , he should know, but doesn’t. It’s all too much. He wants to break something, smash into a thousand tiny pieces and bleed out all the fog that’s mucking up his head at this current moment, but all he can do is stare dumbly while this man speaks about things Jim doesn’t understand.

“I don’t _know_ you,” Jim interrupts because the names this man is rattling off don’t mean a single damn thing to him and he’s tired of listening. He wants to go home, wherever home is, or at least get the fuck off this planet. It does the trick of shutting the man up though, lips snapped shut as if shocked, eyes curtained off and position defensive and hesitant. What glee he thought he’d get from victory eludes him and leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. So he adds, “Sorry. Should I?”

The man is silent for a few moments. Contemplating, Jim thinks.

“That is not important,” he replies quietly, emotionless. It’s pretty impressive. And then the man is offering him a hand up and he takes it, because there’s nowhere else for him to go and the bitter taste is still on his tongue. It’s the right thing to do, even if he doesn’t know why, and he’s finding that he doesn’t know a _lot_ and that’s ridiculous because he knows too much about too many things. He knows _that_ at least, but little good that does him now.

So Jim follows to what might be his death, or maybe his salvation, into a world that is not his.

-

It’s hard to take in all at once.

The walls are thick and strong and solid against the palm of his hand and the air is breathable despite them being in _space_ ; there are panels everywhere and all he has to do is swipe his fingers to make things happen. After having his entire being scattered and put back together in a matter of a second, he doesn’t think he can be surprised by much, but the smooth ground beneath him and the endless hallways of technology and bustling people have him on edge. The man—Spock, he learns, after referring to him as the pointy-eared elf, to which Spock replied, “Cap—Jim, that is hardly accurate. My name is Spock.”—guides him.

Thinking back on it, he sounded pretty pained. Well, as pained as Jim can read, because Spock seems to be a pro at shoving down all signs of expression and emotion until it’s trapped in a bottomless pit of misery and joy and excitement.

Spock leads him to an area that can only be defined as a portable hospital. There are biobeds lined up right against the wall and monitors everywhere; there’s only one person taking up residence here, though, which he guesses is a good thing considering there must be over thirty beds here.

“This is the medical bay,” Spock offers. Jim nods and looks around, shoving his hands in pockets. His pants are torn at the hem from the vines he had tripped over, there are tears and scratches in his shirt and jacket. He wonders if they have a clothing store up here too, or maybe a mall, but his knowledge of this ship and where they are is so _fuzzy_ that he can make nothing out through the static. He knows this place but doesn’t, knows how it works but has no idea what any of this shit does, finds it feels like home but unfamiliar. It’s frustrating. He considers pulling his hair out.

“Spock! Christ, you had me worried, did you find— _Jim_ ,” the other man (he’s going to have to learn his name and quick, because he’s _not_ going to keep referring to people as “that”, thank you very much) breathes out, and Jim swallows the urge to run out of the medical bay and find a way to jump out of the ship and back to wherever his sorry ass was dragged from. But Spock saves him the trouble of having to do anything when he steps forward, shielding Jim from some invisible danger.

“Jim is not himself at the moment,” and hell if that’s not the most accurate thing Jim’s heard since waking up in dead grass and a plethora of plants. “He does not know where he is, who we are, and I do believe that he is unaware of himself, as well.”

He turns to Jim, looks at him with such an empty face that Jim _knows_ he’s forcing himself to surface-dead. It bothers him for reasons he doesn’t, unsurprisingly, understand, as if this is three steps back in a game he once played. “This is Leonard McCoy, the ship’s Chief Medical Officer. You—he prefers to be addressed as ‘Bones’.”

“Huh,” Jim whistles into the silence. It’s awkward and tense and so so so so _wrong_ that he wants to vomit, lessen the knot in his stomach that’s growing tighter and tighter with each passing moment, but he doesn’t. Just takes it for what it is and goes with the flow, figures he’ll fight the current later, assuming, of course that

well

that there _is_ a later.

-

He wakes up and nearly screams, shaking down to his core while he sweats swears stumbles out of bed towards the bathroom. He throws up whatever was in his stomach, tasting bile and acid on his tongue, his nose, the back of this throat; the air is damp around him and too, too hot, choking him while he splutters out puke and blood. The lights flick on and there’s a hand on his back, cool and soothing, and he manages to look up long enough to stare at the culprit.

“I heard you get up,” Bones explains in a whisper, smoothing hair out of Jim’s eyes, and for one blessed second, he _remembers_ , the ship the people bones and _spock_

but it falls away like dead skin and leaves him raw and exposed, a shadow of who he was, who he _is_ and he chokes out, “fuck,” while bones keeps on soothing him.

-

When he wakes again, he’s much more comfortable, and there’s someone sitting in the chair next to his bed.

“You are awake,” the man states. He has strange features—pointed ears, piercing eyes that wound him silently, and this is something, _someone_ , he should know, but doesn’t.

“Uh… yeah. Where—who…?”

The man breathes something like a sigh.

-

This is what he sees:

A room filled with beds, too many beds to be a single bedroom, and too many monitors making too much noise to be of any comfort. He feels in motion and feels vaguely like he’s going to be sick, but swears that’s already happened in the last twenty-four hours, and he has no idea where he is or how he got here but one thing is for certain—he’s losing his mind.

There are two men that visit him constantly when he’s able to keep himself awake. His body is disagreeing with him on a grand scale because he can’t stay awake for much more than fifteen minutes at a time, and ends up sleeping like a kitten, and isn’t that just a wonderful mental image. His limbs are lead and his head is in a constant state of rebellion. He wishes he could remember, but each time he wakes, the last however-long since his last sleep is nothing more than a blur of false images and wavelengths.

“We’ll figure this out,” the doctor says around the eighth time he flings himself off the bed in blind panic.

And it’d be relieving if it wasn’t for the fact that he doesn’t know what they’re trying to figure out in the first place.

-

_It’s been a year since the beginning of the five year mission, a day of celebration, and the shifts rotate quicker so everyone can have a break. Jim leaves the conn with Sulu for a bit and heads out, detouring to his quarters instead of the mess hall, because there is a steadily building staccato of drums in the base of his skull that’s going to drive him insane if he doesn’t catch an hour or so of sleep. Before he reaches his destination, however, he’s cleverly intercepted by a certain first officer who inquires about his health._

_“I’m fine, Spock,” he says tiredly, and lets out a small yawn that he hastily covers with his hand. “It’s just been a long day, is all.”_

_“You are wearing yourself too thin, Jim,” and he’s grateful, really, that they’ve managed to stumble and trip their way into this friendship running deeper than the quarry he almost threw himself into, and he relies on Spock more than he ever thought possible—it’s terrifying, too—but he doesn’t know how to handle it either, is bombarded with memories of a life he never lived, and he’s treading a dangerous line as of late. He slows his pace and Spock follows suit._

_“It’s an important day, Spock,” he explains, though he has no need to. Spock is well-aware of this. “The crew deserves this to be a day off. We’re nowhere near any planets eligible for a decent shore leave and our current course is too important to wait, but that doesn’t mean everyone can’t have a little fun. Lighten up! It’s been an entire_ year _, and that’s pretty damn impressive.”_

_“It is,” Spock agrees. “You’ve only managed to near-fatally wound yourself a total of fourteen times since we began.”_

_“Is that a joke I detect, Mr. Spock?”_

_“Hardly.”_

_Jim laughs, and doesn’t bother, doesn’t_ want _to, stop Spock from following him into his quarters._

_“Chess?” Spock suggests, and who is he to deny such a simple request?_

_By the time his shift begins anew, he’s forgotten he had a headache at all, has checkmated Spock for the first time, and they’re nearing their destination._

_-_

“I don’t _know_ you,” Jim says, and he sees something in the other man’s eyes break, as if he’s ripped out a brand new heart and crushed it to dust under the sole of his boot.

-

Jim overhears them speaking around the eighth day he’s been here.

He sleeps less, eats a bit more, and tries in vain to rememorize what was once, apparently, held very dear to him. There’s something appealing about the ship, he has to admit; he often finds himself wandering the halls when Bones is asleep, and studies every nook and every cranny he can find. He runs into a few crew members (a crew, right, it’s _on the tip of his tongue_ ) but they pay him little mind. He has a fairly good idea of why that is but can’t find it in himself to fault them for it. He spends nights watching the stars, mapping out constellations in breath-fog he creates on the window panels; his fingers drift over silver and grey, linger on the smoother surfaces, and it all registers as something important in his mind but he can’t recall _why_. But he relearns anyway, stretches himself out in each compartment, falls in love with the ship all over again.

But he overhears them speaking around the eighth day he’s been here, hears Spock say, “As Acting Captain, I need to send all reports back to Starfleet immediately. There is very little I can do about this, Doctor, as you should be aware of already.”

“I can _fix_ this, damn it, I just need _time_!”

“Something we are running short on at present.”

“I’m aware of that! But we can’t just—they’ll have him taken off this ship, Spock, is that really something you want to do to Jim? _Jim_? What if he remembers? What then?”

“Then he will take the necessary steps to regain his rank as captain.”

“Captain of _what?!_ They won’t give him back the Enterprise! You’re condemning him to a life he left behind, Spock, don’t you _see_ that? And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I’m not as dumb as the two of you seem to think I am—I figured it out a long, long time ago.”

There is silence, the sound of retreating footsteps, and what is unmistakeably a fist finding purchase on solid steel.

-

“I’ll remember,” he tells Spock. He comes to check up on Jim and brings chess with him; they set it up and he tries desperately to checkmate, but his hands are clumsy and he finds it difficult to concentrate. It’s been a long time since he’s played chess, he figures, because he can barely remember the rules. But Spock is patient and surprisingly kind, picking up knocked-over pieces that got in the way of trembling fingers. He doesn’t mention the tremors or the pale pallor to a normally bright face; doesn’t bring up the weight Jim has lost in the week in a half he’s been here. The man he is now is not the man Spock is acquainted with, but he’s doing his best.

(because jim followed to what might have been his death, but turned out to be closer to his salvation, into a world that was his but is not anymore.)

Spock nods. Jim looks up, conviction flooding every limb and every muscle of his body.

“I will,” he says more forcefully. Spock raises an eyebrow and it’s so fucking _familiar_ that Jim can’t help it—he bursts out laughing, almost doubling over in his bed at the pure _joy_ that rushes through him, and though his eyes are blurred by tears, he swears he sees Spock’s lips quirk, just the slightest bit, into something resembling a smile.

-

_Three months in and Jim gets kidnapped._

_It’s not all that shocking; it’s the price he pays for returning the landing party safely to the Enterprise, but Spock isn’t going to let it go that easily and Jim is counting on this. He sits in a cold cell on a cold planet that causes his teeth to chatter; his hands are numb and he regrets not having a parka this time around, though at least he’s not on Delta Vega. He’d take cold jails over random ice-planet monsters any day, although the idea of meeting Older-Spock is a pleasing one. But that Spock is on New Vulcan and_ his _Spock is somewhere up above, probably working out an escape plan with Bones and Scotty and probably Sulu, too, maybe even Uhura, hell, he’ll let himself indulge in the fantasy that_ all _of them are plotting some amazing, grand plan that will get him out of this cell and back up on board while sticking up a huge middle finger to the bastards that did this in the first place._

_They’re explorers, not politicians, yet more often than not, they end up caught up in governments that differ so much from their own._

_It’s sort of refreshing. Jim can appreciate it—when they don’t stick him in cold cells, that is._

_When he’s left alone, he pulls out his communicator they didn’t bother to check for and tweaks the channels; he’s bound to get a signal eventually, though it’s difficult and time-consuming. By the time he gets something more than static five hours later, there are explosions outside, the sound of phasers going off (set on stun, of course, otherwise there will be hell to pay in the form of an angry James T. Kirk) and voices that are music to his numb and possibly frostbitten ears. A gold tunic is hardly protection against the elements._

_Yet someone calls out, “Jim!” and it’s the greatest word to ever come out of Spock’s mouth. He pockets it and keeps it safe, buries his face in the crook of Spock’s neck when the door is busted open, and clings to the warmth that is the Vulcan. So much warmth—and he’s cold, very, very cold._

_“Definite hypothermia,” another voice says. Bones. Lovely, lovely Bones. “He’s delirious, we need to get him up on the ship_ now _, there’s little I can do for him down here and he needs to be stabilized.”_

_Things go dark for a while, and when he comes to for a few minutes, he’s on a bed, not a frozen ground, and there’s a hand clutching his tightly. He lets go a bit, relieves some of the pressure, but squeezes twice as hard when it tries to snake away from him. The hand is warm, an anchor, and he drifts back to sleep._

_He dreams of ice monsters and caves and old Vulcans touching his mind while young ones guide him through it._

_-_

They work on finding the root of the problem.

See, it’s not that Jim forgets over ninety percent of his life, or that basic knowledge has disappeared and some days are worse than others; it’s that they can’t pinpoint when it started, because looking back, there were _signs_. While the crew is aware that something is seriously wrong with their captain, only Spock, Bones, Uhura, Sulu, Chekhov, and Scotty know the actual details—and only Bones and Spock know how deep, how far this thing goes. But there’s still a ship to run and Spock is the Acting Captain while Bones works feverishly to find a cause and a cure.

“So. I’m the captain of this ship,” Jim had said on the second day. They weren’t going to keep that from him, had hoped it would spark something in his mind, but it fell flat, as had all other attempts thus far.

“Yes,” Spock had replied, not meeting Jim’s eyes, and the awkward tension had blanketed the three of them once again. Jim didn’t bring it up after that.

Two weeks in and a hell of a lot of bullshitting to Starfleet about Jim (he’s sick, he’s got a nasty virus and Doctor McCoy, he’s trying, he is, to synthesize the cure, we’ve got it under control!) and they finally get somewhere.

“I’m James T. Kirk,” he nearly yells, grabbing Bones’ blue shirt and shaking him. His eyes are wild and searching, and Bones looks about ready to have a heart attack; he pages Spock, who leaves Sulu with the conn, and meets them in the medical bay. There’s a loud whine coming from Jim’s biobed because of his accelerated heart rate, but none of them care because he _remembers_.

He lists off his serial number, rank, name again because he can, where he grew up and pranks he had pulled on Bones while in the academy; how he had hacked into the school’s lodging system to trick it into placing him with Bones as a roommate despite different tracks being pursued, and how he hacked into the Maru because no-win scenarios don’t exist for James T. Kirk.

“You remember,” Bones says needlessly, and Jim nods with fervor. Spock stays with him while Bones goes and adds to his report and collects himself.

Alone, Jim says, “I forgot you.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, Spock—I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize, Jim. It was an unfortunate accident.”

And Jim doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to hear any more _words_ or talking, so he does what he should have been doing for the last two weeks.

He kisses Spock like he’s dying, like he’ll forget the way he tastes (mint with a hint of spice), how he feels under the palms of his hands and tips of his fingers (smooth, a lean frame housing muscles that deceive those who do not know him) and doesn’t care if everyone on the ship finds out.

With the way Spock responds, he shares the same sentiments.   

-

_One year and four months into the five year mission and Jim is more than treading on the dangerous line—he’s dancing on it and defiling it, egging it on and begging it to react, and this is going to bite him in the ass but he’s not so sure he cares._

_He dreams often, sometimes gets lost in his own mind of memories that are_ not his _; there is a man in another universe who flirts with danger and places his ship above all else, who goes to the end of the world and back to save his best friend and something so much more. He dreams of staring death in the face, watching it ravage and tear apart the one he holds most dear, has it haunting his heart as he says, “Out of all the souls I have encountered on my travels, his was the most…”_

_And he can’t finish it, can’t say it because that makes it real, a closure he needs but doesn’t want, not like this._

_“…human.”_

_And he dreams of going to the end of the world and back, kicking and screaming the whole way across galaxies and stars, resurrecting the dead and saving the insane; he watches a child die for the sins of the father and the vengeance of a man long dead, of a war not fought, and he weeps._

_But this is not his life. This is not his time. But it doesn’t ease the ache in his heart when Spock remembers Jim’s name before his own, and it nearly consumes him._

_His lack of sleep is catching up with him. Spock catches up with him as well and places a light hand on his shoulder, requesting permission to speak freely and grounding him all at the same time with simple touch alone. Touch is a constant. Jim has a feeling they both crave it more than either are willing to let on._

_“You died,” Jim says after the silence stretches on. Spock does not understand, but does, in ways Jim can’t comprehend._

_“As did you,” he reminds Jim. It tugs a laugh out of his throat._

_“Yeah, and the man who killed you? He’s the reason I’m alive. Isn’t that fucking great?”_

_His insides are poisoned, his blood is rotten, and it’s eating him from the inside out. Spock is quiet, gathering his words, and he eventually says, “You survived because you wished to survive. The blood in your veins is yours as the blood in my veins is mine. He cannot take that away from you if you do not let him. Do not let him win. Do you understand?”_

_It’s so Spock, so fucking… so_ logical _. Jim laughs a bit more hysterically._

_“I’m not that man, Spock. I’m not him. I’m not who he was, who he became, what he did and what he accomplished. That isn’t me. He was a great man.”_

_It’s a true mark of their friendship that Spock picks up immediately who Jim is talking about._

_“This path you walk is yours. Whatever occurred in that universe—to you, to myself, to any of us—it is not what happens here. You shape things the way you want to, not the way you are expected to.”_

_“They loved each other, Spock,” he whispers, falling back against the wall, his legs turning to jelly and his eyes burning. It’s been three days since he last slept, and it’s wearing him down. He’s tired. Spock doesn’t know what to say, and Jim has no need to fill the air with pointlessness._

_But he does anyway, because he’s been craving this for so long, and if it ruins them, tears them apart, it’s a risk he’s willing to take. There is a dam that is cracked and bleeding in his chest, and he wants to be freed._

_He kisses Spock and something snaps, crackles, and pops between them._

-

Jim falls asleep, dreams, and asks the man puttering beside his bed when he wakes, “Where the fuck am I?”

-

_One month into the five year mission and they fight, as they do, on the bridge._

_“We cannot interfere with their race, Captain, you are aware of this fact.”_

_“They will_ die _if we don’t do something! Starfleet isn’t going to get there in time and I’ll be damned if I let us just—just pack up and go like nothing happened! They_ need _us, Spock.”_

_“And what do you propose we do? Give them our rations? Need I remind you, Captain, that that is a possibility that simply does not exist?”_

_“We have to do_ something _,” Jim says, angry but quiet, his fists clenched at his sides as he stares down his first officer. Jim knows Spock is assessing him, trying to determine if his suspicions are correct, but Jim doesn’t give him the option; they’re running out of time and there’s a sickness bubbling in his stomach at the entire situation, and if he has a panic attack on the bridge, he’ll never live it down. This mission is turning out to be a failure, but he’s not going to let any more deaths come out of it._

_“We will take them aboard and detour back towards the starbase.”_

_“And where will they live after, Captain?”_

_“Just until Starfleet arrives. It’ll be, what, a week? They can stay at the base until then.”_

_“There are over three thousand people populating that planet,” Spock reminds him. He could’ve used the exact number but had spared Jim and despite the entire argument, it leaves a warm feeling in his chest. He ignores it. He loses it._

_“And there were eight thousand on—“_

_He stops. Thinks about it. Decides it’s not worth the questions later, the pity and the understanding. He doesn’t need it nor want it; he just wants to save who can be saved while they can still be saved._

_But Spock seems to have noticed the hesitation, of course, and Jim watches the pieces fall together in the dark pools of his eyes; eight thousand colonists, four thousand slaughtered by the time help arrived. It sends a chill down his spine and he ignores that, too. He can’t afford to be comprised at the moment._

_“We can board all citizens, though it will be a tight squeeze,” Sulu offers up. Jim nods. Spock contemplates. Always contemplating._

_“How long until we reach the starbase, Mr. Sulu?” Spock asks calmly._

_“At warp five, we can be there in three hours max. I guarantee it.”_

_“Then it’s settled,” Jim says. He stares at Spock a little longer and is finally,_ finally _granted a nod. It eases the thorns around his heart and twined in his ribcage, and he takes a seat in his chair, holds it together until they’re all on board and safe, until they reach the base and tell them that they will be looked after and protected, that they_ will _be able to return to their homes soon. He holds it together until he can’t anymore, and by that time his shift is nearing the end anyway. He stands up once they’re back on their original course and declares, “I have been compromised. Until further notice, Mr. Spock is Acting Captain.”_

_No one is surprised. On the second day, Spock locates him in his quarters, bringing along what looks to be a chess set. Jim sits a bit straighter and nods to the desk; the rocks weighing him down ease off slightly, enough to let him breathe for the first time in forty-eight hours._

_“Chess?” Jim asks, smiling a bit. Spock offers a nod and Jim offers a seat and that’s how it is. They play._

_Spock wins._

_-_

_Almost two years into the five year mission and Jim stares up at his ceiling. There’s a warm body next to his own and he would believe it’s all a dream if it wasn’t for the comfortable ache in his back. The even breaths puffing against his neck reminds him that he’s not the only one awake, and he stares down at Spock’s face, all sharp angles and soft skin. They only have an hour before their shifts start, but at least they acquired_ some _sleep this time; they will arrive at their destination today—Gamma Trianguli VI, and though it’s a few months earlier than they expected, there’s still a buzz on the ship about finally stepping out of warp and actually exploring._

_“Eight thousand,” Spock states, barely above a whisper. Jim stiffens, but the hand on his neck has him relaxing._

_They still argue. They still cause scenes on the bridge. Uhura has threatened his balls more times than he can count at this point and Bones has rolled his eyes so much he’s waiting for them to pop out of their sockets. They’re dysfunctional and fucked up and it shouldn’t work but it does. They are not what they are in that universe, but they are who they are in this universe, and for now, that’s enough._

_“I am… curious.”_

_He’s not sure where this conversation subject even came from, but he owes Spock this much, he supposes. He shifts a bit so he’s more comfortable, shifts so it’s Spock who is holding him rather than vice versa, and it’s the intimate moments that scare him the most when he’s alone inside his head. It’s made up for with rough, grabbing hands and carpet burn that he refuses to explain to Bones when asked, with the way they attack each other desperately because they could have died but they didn’t and they_ need _it._

_“Ask away, Spock.”_

_“…Which list?”_

_“I was supposed to die. I didn’t.”  He takes a deep breath and lets the words roll off his tongue; if he doesn’t think, he doesn’t have to feel. It’s all very mechanical. “I saw his face. Kodos. I watched him murder my aunt and uncle. I watched him slaughter all those he deemed unworthy. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of and that you’re better off not knowing, but the bottom line is that help didn’t arrive in time and we suffered because of it. By the time they found me with four other kids who had also managed to stay alive, we were close to dying.”_

_He doesn’t say that his mom didn’t go back into space for a year after that; he doesn’t say that he got shipped back to Earth and Sam was still gone. He doesn’t say that he couldn’t function anymore and turned to alcohol, turned to sex, because Frank didn’t care so why should he? He doesn’t say that he used to wish he had died on Tarsus IV rather than watch everything fall to pieces all over again._

_“I was thirteen,” he does say. Spock is silent after that and offers up what comfort he can provide. It’s strange, but not unwelcome._

_Neither mentions the wetness on his cheeks._

-

“You loved me,” Jim says. Spock stares at him, looking much emptier than he had when he first met him all those days ago, and nods.

Jim accepts that. He falls asleep, feverish, and doesn’t hear Spock say, “I have yet to stop, Jim.”

-

_Gamma Trianguli VI is a very pretty planet with too many plants and what seems to be a false reading of life forms._

_Or, that’s what Jim suspects, until there’s a rustling in the bush that is definitely alive. They track it carefully but it escapes too quick for them to even catch a glimpse; the planet shudders beneath them and Jim starts having doubts about bringing such a large landing party. He leads them through thick bushes and tendrils of vines that work up the trees. There’s a large quantity of vegetation and the flowers are snappish. Jim brushes past a clump of thorns at some point, but the pain quickly recedes; up until Mallory falls victim to one of the plants, all goes well._

_But then Mallory falls victim to one of the plants and he’s dead before any of them can blink, bullet-like shots, yellow and sticky, protruding out of his chest._

_Jim calls up and declares immediate evacuation until they can evaluate the situation close enough. There’s something they’re missing and he orders Spock to do a thorough sweep when they’re back aboard the ship. They stay in orbit for a day before Jim asks, “Why are we still here?”_

_Spock stares at him with a hint of confusion._

_Jim gives the command and they leave orbit and head to the next planet._

_-_

“This is fucking stupid.”

And his entire body is on fire, burning up from the inside out but he can’t figure out _why_. It’s just his luck that the unexplained amnesia would be accompanied with the flu, too. Except it’s not the flu, Bones tells him, or any known recorded alien virus or disease; he’s not sure what it is, but he immediately connects the dots, and pride swells in Jim’s chest. He doesn’t think about it because it makes it easier. It’s all very mechanical.  

“This isn’t a coincidence, Jim, you’re showing all signs of a bad infection. If we can locate it, maybe I can isolate it and figure out if it’s what’s causing your memory loss.”

“You did a physical when I got here, though,” Jim reminds him. He had fought against that but Spock had calmed him down. Of course he had. He doesn’t remember why but there’s nothing new about that.

“Well damn,” Bones crosses his arms and Jim regrets everything. “Strip down, kiddo. Time for round two.”

-

_Jim falls ill once during the second year of the five year mission._

_It’s awful and he’s one giant bruise; his fever spikes to 104, his body shakes constantly, and he sleeps in fits of nightmares and fever dreams. He’s out of it for six days and takes three to recover, leaving his immune system shot to hell and back. He isn’t allergic to the vaccines Bones administers to combat the illness, but it’s a small victory. He’s told that he was on death’s door, had probably even knocked, and if his fever hadn’t broken when it did, he’d have burned up his entire body. Spock remains Acting Captain and visits when he’s not on the bridge, though he’s formal and stiff, and Jim wants to shake him because hey, he survived, can they just move on?_

_“Look, I’m sorry I almost died, alright? I can assure you, that wasn’t my intention. I kind of like being a captain, you know.”_

_“This brings the count up to thirteen.”_

_Of course Spock is keeping track._

_“I don’t know what you want me to say.”_

_“There is nothing I would like for you to say, Captain,” and the formality kills him bit by bit. He wants to rip_ captain _to pieces until only Jim remains, because this isn’t how the two of them can work. There has to be a line. Spock is overlapping the two and that makes Jim nervous in ways he didn’t know possible. “I would just like to get through at least one mission without you maiming or injuring yourself. You cannot cheat death forever.”_

_Jim chews the inside of his lip and tries to figure out how to respond to something like that. He motions for Spock to take a seat next to him on the bed and he does, stiff and defensive._

_“I’ll try,” is all he says, and Spock’s relief is worth it._

_-_

_It’s not that he purposely lands himself in trouble, because he doesn’t. It’s just a product of his actions that he can’t avoid—he can try, but he won’t promise, because he’s not in the habit of making ones he can’t keep. But the safety of the Enterprise and her crew are his priority, and he’ll do what he can to uphold that. If it means sometimes he lands in a fight he can’t win, or gets poisoned with strange alien toxins that haven’t been documented yet, or taking a proverbial bullet for his men and women, then he won’t hesitate. He’ll make sure that they get back on the ship in one piece and if he loses someone, if he fails to keep them safe, he’ll vow to do better next time. He has to. He can’t afford mistakes and yet he makes them,_ will _make them, but he’ll be sure to take the brunt of it._

_He will be the one to take responsibility and no one else; it’s something no one can take from him, not even Spock himself, because this falls on his shoulders and his shoulders alone._

_He mourns in private; he mourns when it’s time for rotation and he skips dinner, heads straight to his quarters. He sits on his bed and stares at the wall, replays every moment, every second of what had happened, and he’ll pinpoint where he went wrong. What he could have done to prevent it, what he can do next time, and he’ll make sure he doesn’t fuck it up. Some assignments are worse than others; some deaths he’ll never be able to shake, and they will sit in the chests, names he will not ever allow himself to forget._

_Spock will find him, as he does, and will sit with him until the grip around his lungs loosens enough to let him breathe again._

_-_

He doesn’t regain all of his memories at once this time, but they drift in and out of his consciousness, streams of water he can’t grasp but leaving droplets behind, clues and fragments of memories buried in grain. It’s late and he’s tired, but he can’t keep his eyes closed long enough to fall asleep, so he sits up in the biobed and watches as Spock packs up the set. Jim had lost again; it’s not surprising, but he’s getting better, and he sincerely hopes that if—when he gets his mind back, he’ll regain his experience. As Spock finishes, Jim considers for a moment whether or not what he’s about to do is a good idea at all; but it’s awfully lonely in here, and while he’s not himself, he’s not the man who isn’t himself, either, and he has memories of Spock in the back of his mind and on the tips of his fingers, and he’ll be damned if he lets this go.

“Stay?” he breathes out, scarcely above a whisper, and Spock pauses in his movements. To anyone else, it’d be a swift, easy-to-miss hesitation, but Jim sees it in the way his muscles tense and his eyes flick up long enough to bore into Jim’s very core. “You don’t have to, it’s completely up to you, but I wouldn’t mind it. If you wanted to, I mean.”

But he does, places the chess set off to the side and sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look at Jim as he says, “My shift begins in four hours.”

“So stay for four hours. You look like you could use some sleep.”

“What is it that you seek from me?”

“Company. I don’t know, Spock, maybe I just miss you.”

“I am here quite often,” he reminds Jim gently. Jim just rolls his eyes and pats the empty space next to him, offering for Spock to lay down, and maybe it should be awkward and tense all over again because they’re not quite whatever they were before, but they’re not simply friends either, and Jim’s walking this line a second time and he’s going to fall at this rate—he’s going to overstep and trip and tumble down the stairs, sprawled out and laid bare at the end of it, and he can only hope that he’ll be able to put himself back together once it’s done.

For now, though, Spock merely nods and lays himself down next to Jim, compact and angular and slim; they’re close enough to touch, facing each other across galaxies and canyons and a sea of vibrant colors.

“Thanks,” he mumbles after a few seconds of silence. Spock nods, as if that’s all he’s capable of at the moment, and says, “I do not require thanks.”

The air is heavy with all the words they don’t say.

-

He becomes more ill as the hours pass, and halfway through Spock’s shift, he’s called down to the medical bay. Jim can hear the garbled sentences, jagged pieces of a conversation he can’t keep up with. He hears, “—his fever’s spiked and unless—“, and his stomach aches in protest. He’s far too hot, doesn’t recognize who is speaking or who the voices belong to; he is bleeding from every pore in his body, losing himself to the foreign whatever-it-is ravaging his body, but he’ll fight.

Because he remembers, _you cannot cheat death forever_ , and can feel the faint touches across his cheekbone, his brow, the back of his hand and the planes of his chest.

There is someone, _someone_ that is waiting for him, and he refuses to allow the count to jump to fifteen.

-

_“T’hy’la,” Spock whispers, and it swells in Jim’s chest until he can’t breathe._

-

_They return to Gamma Trianguli VI under Jim’s orders but their path is beginning to make little sense. Jim is disoriented and faintly sick, but if he brings it up, Bones will have his ass in the med bay so fast that he won’t even see it coming. But there’s something he’s missing, and it drives him towards the planet they had left behind, logs and reports hardly cataloguing enough to be of standard procedure._

_When they’re in orbit, Jim beams down with only one other in the landing party—Spock. The planet’s surface is much the same as the first time, though everything is blurred around the edges, and the ground meets his face before he can stop himself. Spock is nowhere near his current position, and he doesn’t recall how they split up or why, but he’s on his own now; he follows the paths he finds, the reddish dirt sinking under his boots. He is surrounded by flora that reek of a scent similar to pollen, tickling his nose and urging him to move faster._

_He has no idea where his destination is. There is a stab of pain in his thigh and he crumples to the ground, reaching out for a hand that isn’t there, gasping a name that falls on deaf ears and fluttering petals._

_He’s alone._

-

_He never says, “I love you,” because he doesn’t know how to say it without shattering irrevocably._

_-_

_There are too many flowers, too many bursting colors and blooms surrounding him, a needless forest of needles and haystacks painted with vibrant reds and blues and purples. He cannot find his way out or up, doesn’t know where he even_ is _, and so when an unfamiliar voice says, “_ Jim _,” he nearly ups and runs right there._

_He doesn’t, though. Whoever he (Jim, he thinks, my name is Jim) is, he knows he’s not a runner, so he stares at the man who had spoken and says, “What.”_

_“We believed you dead,” the man continues. He has strange features—pointed ears, piercing eyes that wound him silently, and this is something,_ someone _, he should know, but doesn’t. It’s all too much. He wants to break something, smash into a thousand tiny pieces and bleed out all the fog that’s mucking up his head at this current moment, but all he can do is stare dumbly while this man speaks about things Jim doesn’t understand._

 _“I don’t_ know _you,” Jim interrupts because the names this man is rattling off don’t mean a single damn thing to him and he’s tired of listening. He wants to go home, wherever home is, or at least get the fuck off this planet. It does the trick of shutting the man up though, lips snapped shut as if shocked, eyes curtained off and position defensive and hesitant. What glee he thought he’d get from victory eludes him and leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. So he adds, “Sorry. Should I?”_

_The man is silent for a few moments. Contemplating, Jim thinks._

_“That is not important,” he replies quietly, emotionless. It’s pretty impressive. And then the man is offering him a hand up and he takes it, because there’s nowhere else for him to go and the bitter taste is still on his tongue. It’s the right thing to do, even if he doesn’t know why, and he’s finding that he doesn’t know a_ lot _and that’s ridiculous because he knows too much about too many things. He knows_ that _at least, but little good that does him now._

_So Jim follows to what might be his death, or maybe his salvation, into a world that is not his._

_-_

The fever breaks and he hears, “—had healed itself, didn’t even leave a goddamn scar, so it was difficult to locate and isolate, but we did it, he’ll recover.”

“And his memory?”

“Don’t know just yet. The brain is the one mystery we haven’t solved.”

-

Jim Kirk is many, many things.

Jim Kirk is the captain of a starship, a follower of his father’s footsteps up until he says fuck it and crunches red dirt and vibrant flowers beneath his feet to make a path all his own; he’s a man who holds a great deal of power with a whole lot against him, but knows exactly where to draw the lines and cross them without stumbling too much and losing everything. Jim Kirk is everything that the Federation needs but didn’t _want_ but gets _anyway_ because Pike is (was) insistent and Jim Kirk never backs down from a dare. So when he’s dared to do better, he steals it from the air and tucks it in his pocket, carries it with him for three years and keeps it packed and folded even when he saves the world. “I dare you to do better,” Pike says, and that becomes, “I am relieved,” and Jim Kirk keeps that tucked in the pocket with all the words that actually mean something to him.

He earns his position, proves himself over and over, can act like the world’s biggest skirt-chasing jerk while simultaneously saving the life of the landing party and ensuring everyone’s safe return to the ship. There is a rich mind behind the ice and fire, a thousand truths locked up in treasure chests, and one only has to find the key.

-

_“T’hy’la,” Spock whispers, and Jim can’t speak, only hides himself in the soft skin that is the other man’s neck._

-

Jim wakes up, a repeat of so many times before, and stares up at the ceiling. It’s white and the room he’s in is far too _bright_ for his eyes, and his entire body screams in protest when he goes to sit up. There is a pair of hands that help steady him until he catches his balance properly, and then he’s leaning against propped up pillows behind his back. It’s comfortable, at least, though it smells faintly like lemon and sterilization and a lot like humanity. He breathes and feels his lungs breathe with him, his heart beating in a steady rhythm, and his skin tingles where the needles have touched his flesh and prodded at his veins; he’s sore in eight different places but mostly his thigh, and it takes him exactly three point nine seconds to catalogue all this.

He stares at the two other men in the room, and he can see that they are clearly both waiting for something; stiff and teetering on the edge of a precipice, and Jim knows that his next words will either toss a rope or give the final push.

(he thinks of all the words he didn’t say and couldn’t say, of the moments he had the opportunity to but let pass; he thinks of a body over his own, of pale skin and dark hair and midnight touches; he thinks that he might be dying, because there is a growing pain blossoming in his chest, nearly bursting with every single word he meant to utter and never did.)

Bones stares at him, the barest hint of emotion flickers in Spock’s eyes, and Jim says quietly, breath rushing from his lungs, “I’m sorry.” 


End file.
